


A Voice of Bells and Thunder

by thievinghippo



Series: Wynneth Hawke [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2187732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quickly scribbled note on a piece of vellum, with a hastily drawn symbol in the corner. This is their system, but neither Anders nor Hawke planned for the day when things went wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

Some say the world will end in fire,

    Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

    But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of fate

    To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

    And would suffice.

\-- "Fire and Ice," Robert Frost

~~~~~

**Part I**

_We know about Anders. What about Justice? Does he not get involved? Or perhaps he thinks you_ _’re too good of a person and isn’t willing to smite you. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it? - Isabela_

~~~~~

He is in the Fade.

Raising his arms, Justice sees gauntlets covering strong hands instead of the delicate fingers of a healer. He hears the clank and feels the weight of heavy armor instead of the rustling of fabric. He rolls his shoulders, annoyed how the armor makes him uncomfortable. There was a time, back in Amaranthine, when he wore this armor like a second skin. Anders, with his feathered pauldrons and his linen jacket has made him soft.

Made him _weak_.

But those are thoughts for another time. For now he must find the Champion, he must find Hawke.

For years, ever since she brought Anders into the Fade to help Feynriel, they have met here. While Anders sleeps, wanting no part of the Fade for himself, Justice takes the time to roam. Most nights, he simply wanders, letting the atmosphere seep into his skin, rejuvenating the mana Anders rations so carefully.

But some nights, seemingly more often than not these days, he searches for Hawke. Some night he isn’t able to find her. Most nights, he can. Justice is attuned to her energy here in the Fade, the physical relationship she shares with Anders leaving an impression on him as well. Once he finds her, then it is a simple matter of deciding whether to speak.

Some nights, he does not, choosing to observe, to learn more about the Champion who is so tied up in their cause and their lives. But most nights, he does.

The first time he found her, he used Anders' form, thinking she would appreciate the familiar. She did not. Several weeks passed before he found her again, only a few nights after she and Anders became lovers. Since then, he appears as Kristoff, which seems to please her. He does not dwell on why her praise at such a small gesture matters so much to him.

Justice closes his eyes and lets his essence drift outward, searching, reaching, hunting. Precious seconds pass, and he senses her presence.

Taking a breath he does not need, Justice breaks into a jog. Anders has placed him in a crude replica of the Fereldren Circle, but it doesn’t take long before Justice steps out the front door, a freedom his host was never allowed. And if the Templars had their way, no mage would ever have permission leave their cage. Once he is outside, he feels heat and hears the sudden snap of fire.

Behind him, the Ferelden Circle burns.

He wonders in what form he’ll find Hawke. If he times this right, he can catch her between dreams, which is his preference, when she is just herself in the Fade and they converse of all manner of things. But he’s not too proud to admit that he enjoys watching her dreams as well.

She has several that she returns to, over and over. He savors the ones when she is a child, with red, wavy hair streaming down her back while she plays with her brother and sister. The innocence she displays during those dreams reminds him why he fights, why _they_ fight. So other mage children might have the same childhood she had.

Another one he prefers is when she sits at her spinning wheel in Lothering, crafting thread or yarn. She told Anders she had been an apprentice to a spinner once, and there was nothing more enjoyable to her than the act of creating. In these dreams, she simply sits and spins, and Justice will find himself getting lost in the beauty of the repetitive movement. These dreams do not happen often, only when she is bone-weary and exhausted, and her mind does not have the strength to craft more elaborate tales.

Then there are the dreams where she and Anders are in bed, sometimes in the middle of the act of lovemaking, sometimes just after. At first, Justice would disappear in the recess of Anders’ mind when they made love, furious Anders would allow himself to be distracted from their cause. It took time, but eventually Justice realized Hawke is a necessary distraction; the nights with her eases Anders’ stress and sharpens his focus.

Only in the Fade, where Justice does not share Anders’ mind, can he admit the nights now peak his curiosity. Kristoff’s memories still linger, and Justice can remember being with Aura. And only a week ago, when Hawke and Anders both drank a glass of wine, and Justice, fresh from the triumph of recovering enough Drakestone for the explosives, bade Anders to ask her if he might kiss her.

Hawke, her cheeks flush from the wine and the question, surprised them both and agreed.

Neither he nor Hawke have brought up the kiss in their conversations in the Fade since. Justice thinks about it a great deal, how tentative the kiss was at first, but then deepened, until he finally pushed Hawke against the wall and simply _took_. Afterward, Anders - in control once more - led Hawke to bedroom, his fingertips brands and with every touch, marked her as his - as _theirs_. Justice observed it all and wondered how much longer it would be before he wanted more than a simple kiss.

But Justice cannot let memories and possibilities distract him, not now, not when so much is at stake.

He picks up his pace, feeling the pull of her energy. She is nearby. The Fade around him changes and he walks into a replica of the Hawke manor, but not the bedroom. The main hall is brighter, more cheerful, than Justice has seen it. A cackling fire roars in the hearth. He hears a child laugh and he wonders if Hawke is tired and mixing up her dreams. A girl, no more than six, with long red wavy hair runs down the stairs, seems to confirm it.

But then Anders walks in from the library and picks the girl up, revealing eyes of gold instead of green.

The sight staggers Justice back, and adrenaline courses through him.

_Betrayal._

Hawke is only dreaming and he knows this, but he cannot help but feel deceived. They had spoken about the possibility only once, about a week after Anders started spending the night, when she asked, her voice almost shy, about birth control. Anders took her by the hand and explained how the taint made him virtually sterile. Even now, Justice can remember the one brief moment of grief and despair on Hawke’s face before smiling against Anders’ lips, saying it would be one less thing to worry about.

Anders and Justice _believed_ her.

And there she is now, watching Anders with the little girl so intently, with such naked longing on her face, that Justice feels he has been kicked in the gut. They would do anything for Hawke, he and Anders. They are getting ready to tear down the entirety of Thedas so she can be free. So Knight-Commander Meredith can never again threaten her with the Circle.

So why this? Why would she dream of the one thing she _knows_ they cannot give her?

Even without the taint, Justice himself would never allow it, not until all mages are free. Not until they could raise a child without fear of the Templars. For years now, Justice has made sure Anders never drinks more than one lager or one glass of wine at a time, he could certainly force an abstinence as well.

“Hawke.”

He is taking a risk, breaking the illusion of her dream, but he has no time. Justice says her name carefully, not allowing any of his anger to bleed through his voice. He will make sure she and Anders discuss this dream later, but first, there are far more important things to do.

She meets his eyes, guilt apparent on her face. But the dream does not dissipate as it should. Anders disappears, but the little girl remains, the smile on her face sharp and terrifying.

“What have you done, Hawke?” Justice asks, hearing the outrage in his voice. Hawke is better than this. She is the ideal. She is tempted over and over by demons but never once has she succumbed. He searches her face, demanding an explanation and then he realizes.

Hawke is exhausted.

Her eyes, with far more shadows underneath them than he remembers, close, and she slumps against the wall. “I didn’t promise anything,” Hawke whispers. “I swear.” She takes a breath and squares her shoulders, looking directly at the child. This time her voice is strong and sure. The voice of a Champion. _His_ champion. “I’ve seen enough, demon, and want no part of this. Be gone.”

Before them, the child transforms into a desire demon. “But they were so happy together,” the demon says, her lips forming a dainty pout. “He wants to be the father of your children. Would you deny him that?”

His fingers curl into fists and Justice thinks how often Anders dwells on the conversation about birth control, his thoughts always tinged with sadness and regret. Justice knows the demon is right, Anders _does_ want this, but it is a fantasy, a dream.

A desire.

“Leave this place, demon,” Justice orders. “There is nothing for you here.”

The demon transforms again, this time into the shape of Anders. “I don’t think so,” the demon says, using Anders voice. Justice sees fire dance at Hawke’s fingertips and prepares himself. She is staffless, but by no means defenseless. And he carries a sword and shield, like the one he used in Amaranthine. They will defeat this demon together if need be.

Hawke takes a step away as the demon reaches out his arms. “I’ve been neglecting you, sweetheart,” Anders’ form say, sincerity piercing every word. “I’ve realized I was wrong. You’re right, of course. Nothing is more important than love.”

“If only that were true,” Hawke says, her voice quiet. Without warning, Hawke throws out her hands, releasing a Winter’s Blast. The demon freezes into place, giving Justice time to draw his sword and shield. As the spell wears out - quickly, for Hawke does not have a staff - Anders transforms back into the desire demon’s true form.

Before Justice has a chance to strike, the demon casts Spell Shield, ensuring Hawke’s spells will not be nearly as effective against her. But Justice knows that Hawke is smart and able to switch tactics with ease and is not surprised one bit when he feels an Arcane Shield envelop him.

“Foul sorceress!” Justice taunts as he bashes the demon with his shield. He has the demon’s full attention now and takes the opportunity to let the magic of this place surround him, to slither into his soul, until he has the Blessing of the Fade himself. His reflexes quicken, his attacks sharpen and with Hawke at his back, protecting him with Boons and well-applied Hexes, he knows they cannot fail.

Even so, the fight ends more quickly than he expects, the desire demon dead at his feet.

Justice turns to face Hawke, to accuse her, to censure her, to blame her, for even talking to a demon, but she rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms and says, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m tired and scared—”

“That is not an excuse—”

Hawke’s eyes flash and she takes a step closer to him. They are only a heartbeat away from each other and she is furious. Her eyes are lit and her cheeks red and she has never been more beautiful than she is right now, with her frenzied gaze piercing his soul. For just a moment, he is tempted to lay everything out before her, and tell her the true reason of the Drakestone and the Sela Petrae and discover her reaction.

Her hands ball up into fists and she pounds his chest piece once. “Where is he?” she asks. Her voice is of the Champion, demanding to be obeyed without question.

He relishes her anger, her _vengeance_ , and it reminds him why he has sought her out tonight in the first place.

“Hawke,” he says, grabbing her wrists with his hands. They stare at each other and Justice wonders how he ever, years ago, thought her simply as a tool to be used. She is his Champion and he will tear down Thedas brick by brick to make this world safe for her; he will rain down retribution on anyone who dare hurt her. But first…

“We need your help.”


	2. Part II

**Part II**

_Listen, as your friend, I feel like I_ _’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t say something. Maybe, just maybe, getting involved with the possessed mage might be dangerous. - Varric_

~~~~~

“Fenris!” Her voice rings out in the empty foyer. Please don’t let him be at The Hanged Man with Isabela, not tonight, not when she needs him sober and ready to fight. Hawke moves into the main entryway of his mansion, ignoring the decomposing bodies and general clutter. One day, she will send Orana over here to clean the place, she promises herself.

Hawke tilts her head in the direction of Fenris’ bedroom, hoping to hear something, anything, to let her know he is home. She hears no sound. “Fenris!” she calls out again, hearing the frantic tone in her voice. Her heart beats quickly against her ribs, like a hummingbird’s wings.

_Anders is in danger._

Justice told her little. A last minute mage underground mission gone wrong. Anders, alone and injured in the tunnels leading from the Gallows. The other mages dead. Templars searching.

She had been waiting for Anders all day and when he hadn't shown up by midnight, Hawke tried to convince herself that he was a grown man, he would be fine. But this is exactly why they had a system.

The day before, she received a quickly scribbled note delivered by a resident of Darktown. The words themselves were inconsequential. Sometimes Anders wrote little jokes that made her laugh, sometimes he wrote paragraphs that made her blush and heat to pool between her legs, and sometimes he simply jotted down a few new lines for his manifesto.

What mattered was the small symbol that represented the mage underground he drew in the corner of each of the notes, letting her know he would not be home that evening. Hawke always does her best not to worry until she sees him, but lately it’s been so hard, and she knows she is beginning to lose him to whatever it is that he and Justice have planned.

Adjusting her tabard, Hawke looks around the room. It is an almost exact duplicate of hers at home, but while she has Bodahn and Sandal and Orana to keep the place warm and lively, Fenris has discarded weapons and cobwebs. She will never understand why he chooses to live like this. But then, maybe that’s the point. It is his choice. Perhaps she will ask permission first before sending Orana over to clean.

“Fenris!” she yells up the stairs one more time. She is scared now, having so few people she can trust with this. If he is not home…

“Hawke.”

She turns and sees him emerge from the hallway leading from the kitchen, holding a half-eaten apple. Her shoulders slump in obvious relief. His voice relays the question, why she is here at two o’clock in the morning, what does she need of him. Already he is walking up the stairs and pulling off his tunic to presumably dress in his armor.

Obediently Hawke follows him up the stairs, but not into his bedroom, the door to which he leaves open. She stands outside, leaning against the wall. Her hands splay against the stucco, bracing her for the words about to come out of her mouth, as if it could protect her from making this real. “Anders is hurt. I would like your help in finding him, please.”

A request, always a request. Ever since he killed Danarius and his final words to his former master not what she expected, Hawke chose her phrases carefully when asking for assistance. She hopes never to abuse the trust Fenris places in her.

Her appeal will already strain the fragile thread between he and Anders, she knows. She overheard Sebastian and him talking about turning Anders over to the templars once, though Fenris made it clear he would not entertain such a thought without her approval, which he would never receive. Hopefully the thread will not fray any further. For it is night, and Hawke will not venture into Darktown and the tunnels below without backup.

Only a few minutes pass before Fenris leaves the bedroom, clad in his armor and the Blade of Mercy strapped to his back. There is no sign of annoyance on his face, only determination. “Whatever you need, I am ready to assist.”

Her mouth is dry. She doesn’t deserve such friendship and yet here it is. “Thank you,” she says, making sure her voice does not betray her feelings. “Let’s head to The Hanged Man. I’d like Varric’s and Isabela’s help as well.”

Fenris nods and they walk together in silence, down the stairs and out of the mansion. Hawke takes a breath, letting the cool night air wash over her. “Here’s what I know,” Hawke says, keeping her voice low, even though there is no one to overhear as they walk through Hightown. “Remember the tunnel Anders showed us a few years ago, for the mage underground?” Fenris nods briskly once. “He’s hurt and in that tunnel.”

For a minute, the only sounds in the square are her boots and the padded shuffle of Fenris’ bare feet. “How do you know this?” Fenris asks, his voice quiet.

“Justice found me in the Fade,” Hawke admits. “He does that, occasionally, but this time, he told he that Anders is hurt.”

“A demon spoke to you in the Fade,” Fenris says and stops walking.

Hawke stops as well and turns to face her companion. “I am a mage, Fenris, demons surround me all the time in the Fade. I have never succumbed.” _Yet_ , the voice in her head whispers as she thinks of the image the desire demon fed her, of Anders, healthy and whole, holding their child in his arms. How her body ached, desperate to feel the fullness of a baby growing safely in her belly, as she watched the scene. They will never have a child, she understands this, yet she can’t help but wonder _what if_? “I never will,” she says, more to reassure herself than for Fenris.

“I trust you, Hawke,” Fenris says, shaking his head. “But I do not trust Justice.”

“Which is why I need you by my side, Fenris,” Hawke says, imploring. “If something has happened to Anders and Justice, if he is not what he should be…” Hawke takes a steadying breath and curls her fingers around the edge of her tabard. She looks Fenris right in the eye and does not let her voice waiver. “I trust you to do the right thing, if I am not strong enough.”

Fenris stares at her for a moment, then two, before blinking once. His dips his head just a fraction, and Hawke feels relief pour over her.

The rest of their walk to The Hanged Man is in silence.

~~~~~

The door to Varric’s suite is ajar and Hawke wastes no time letting herself inside. Varric sits at his writing desk, pipe in his mouth, wearing his spectacles. Ink stained fingers wave them inside.

Hawke breathes in deeply, enjoying the scent from his pipe, a specialty tobacco he trades for all the way from the Anderfels. She knew he considers this blend his ‘writing smoke’ and only uses a pinch when he thinks he can sit down and write for a few hours uninterrupted.

Varric’s eyes travel from the clock on the desk to the sword strapped on Fenris’ back and the staff on hers. “Not a social visit, I presume?” Varric asks, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Who do you need me to kill, Hawke?”

“Just grab Bianca and we’ll be off,” Hawke says, trying to sound bright. They don’t need to see her fear, her worry that Anders has been alone for twenty-four hours in that damned tunnel with the Templars searching for him. “I’m going to find Isabela.”

Varric winces and takes off his spectacles, before throwing a knowing look at Fenris. “She’s drunk off her ass, Hawke. Apparently she and the elf had words tonight.”

Fenris bristles next to her. “We did not have _words_.”

“Well, whatever you said to her, broody, made The Rivaini down an entire bottle of gin in about fifteen minutes before dragging a lovely young woman back to her room,” Varric says as he shrugs on his leather duster. “We need a fourth for this outing?”

“We’ll pick up Merrill,” Hawke says, refusing to look at the hands on the clock, at the seconds ticking away. Anders cannot die on her, not now, not when Kirkwall is falling to pieces around them. Merrill isn’t too far away, won’t take too much time to get there. She has no other options. She cannot get the guard involved, meaning Aveline is out of the question and if Templars are there, she’d prefer Sebastian not to be.

After Varric pulls on his gloves, he scoops up Bianca. “She’s ready for an adventure,” he says, strapping the crossbow to his back. “Details outside?”

“Thank you,” Hawke says and her voice shakes just enough for Varric to throw her a concerned look. He’s shrewd enough to already know what this is about by the unexplained absence by her side.

They march single file out into the hallway, Hawke trailing. Fenris glances down the hall towards Isabela’s room before shaking his head once. For a moment, Hawke lets herself forget, and focus on other people’s problems and not her own. She hopes whatever words Fenris and Isabela had tonight are ones that could be repaired. She likes the two of them together, there’s just something that feels right about it, about them.

Outside The Hanged Man the atmosphere is quiet for once, with no drunks or whores nearby. As the trio passes the stalls in the market, Varric asks, “I’m assuming this is about Blondie.”

Hawke’s nod is curt and she doesn’t trust herself to speak, not this moment, when horrors are cycling through her head. She pushes them aside and will deal with them if - and only if - she must. “He’s hurt.”

“And you know this how?”

“She and the demon converse,” Fenris says, his voice sharp. Hawke pivots to her left and ignores Gamlen’s house. She is overdue for a visit; after mother's death she took over the weekly visits, which have slowly become bi monthly and then monthly.

“Justice? We’re trusting Justice now? The same Justice who, might I remind you, Hawke, took Blondie over and tried to kill us in the Deep Roads?” Varric asks.

Hawke closes her eyes for a moment, but keeps walking, until she stumbles over a small pile of ruble. Fenris’ hand is steady on her arm at once, keeping her from falling down completely. After nodding her thanks, she looks at Varric. “He apologized.”

She remembers the meeting in the Fade clearly. Justice approached her, his head hanging low and sounding shy and repentant, as he asked for forgiveness. It was the voices, he explained. They taunted Anders, taunted him, until Justice felt like the only thing to make them stop was to lash out. She forgave him at once, of course she did. How many nights had she been woken from slumber because of Anders’ dreams, a parting gift from the Grey Wardens?

The Alienage is quiet tonight, with no one milling about. Hawke thinks she sees a sack with a lump, but she pushes the thought of possible treasure and loot aside. Getting to the Darktown tunnels is far more important.

Three sharp raps on Merrill’s door and Hawke waits. She hopes Merrill is home, hopes that she isn’t out with Tomwise or that elf that owns the food cart which sells the bread pudding Merrill likes so much.

“Are you alright, Hawke?” Varric asks softly. Not quiet enough for Fenris to not hear, but quiet enough that the elf knows this conversation is not for him and turns his head. Hawkes looks at Fenris gratefully for just a moment before turning her attention to Varric.

“I’ll be much better once I find Anders,” she says as the door opens.

Merrill is wearing a robe and yawns, her hands stretched behind her back. “Did I forget something?” she asks, her voice slurred with sleep. “Do we have a patrol?” She looks up at the clear, moonless sky. “It’d be a nice night for a patrol. Bit dark, though.”

“Get dressed, Daisy,” Varric says. “We’re heading to Darktown.”

Blinking, Merrill says, “It will probably be even darker there, won’t it?” She cracks her neck, the noise causing Hawke to flinch. “Let me put on my armor.”

Hawke paces down the length of the alienage while Merrill changes, desperately trying to remember how to breath. She woke from her dream in the Fade almost an hour ago, and they haven’t even begun the search for Anders. She should have started this search this evening, when the first spark of fear formed in her belly at dinner.

As Merrill changes, Hawke walks over to the lumpy sack and opens it up. Just a bit of frayed rope. She supposes this is how gamblers must feel, always wondering when they'll beat the House. Even though it will fetch next to nothing at market, she pockets it anyway.

As Hawke walks back to the group, Merrill strides out of her small home, wearing her chainmail and tabard, staff strapped to her back. Varric claps. “Record time, Daisy.”

“Hawke looks so sad, I figure something must be wrong,” Merrill says, stretching her arms high above her head. “I changed as quickly as I could.”

“I’m not sad,” Hawke snaps. “I’m just worried.”

Merrill bites her lower lip. “I’m fairly certain that’s your sad face, Hawke. You wore it for weeks after your mother was killed.”

Hawke hisses in a sharp intake of breath as she feels both Fenris’ and Varric’ eyes on her. “Fine, I’m sad, I’m whatever you want me to be,” she says, already moving towards the entrance to Darktown. She hears the solid boots of Varric behind her, followed by Fenris and Merrill only a moment later.

Her nose wrinkles at the smell of filth and body odor as they walk down the tunnel leading to Darktown. The sounds of poverty: coughing, the clink of too few coins, and vermin, can be heard everywhere. She needs a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark, and she is wary, looking for anything out of place.

They come across no surprises as they move quietly, no one on the streets paying them any attention. When the ladder leading down into the tunnel comes into view, Hawke feels her pulse racing, her breath shallow 

She wants to burst out into a run. She wants to fling herself through the tunnel. She wants to find Anders and drag him somewhere safe - Justice be damned - and make sure no one can ever harm him again.

She wants…

She wants Justice to have never woke her from her dream only to lead her into a nightmare.


	3. Part III

**Part III**

_I know you and Anders are_ _… It’s not my place to question. But please, be careful. He’s a dangerous man. And selfish. Whatever he promised, don’t think he’ll ever put you above his own needs. - Sebastian_

~~~~~

Lit torches reflect off the tunnel walls.

Hawke can’t decide if that’s good or bad news. Bad, most likely. Perhaps the Templars are still searching. She stops and cocks her head, trying to hear something, anything, to give her an idea of what they’re about to face. But all she hears is her companions, the links in Merrill’s chainmail brushing together, leather gliding over as Varric adjusts his gloves and Fenris’ quiet breathing. His armor makes no sound.

The smell in the tunnel is awful, though not nearly as bad as the one they went to for the Sela Petrae, which made her empty the contents of her stomach when they made it back to Darktown. Thinking of the ingredient makes her wince.

_What are you hiding, Anders?_

He’s never flat out lied to her before. Kept truths from her, certainly, but never a bald face lie. A part of her worries what he told her isn’t a lie. That when he mixes the ingredients, they will be free because they will be dead. Hawke will not stop him if he feels it is what is needed to be done, but she knows, deep inside, that she doesn’t necessarily want to live in a world where he does not stand beside her.

A sudden shout down one of the tunnels catches her attention. The man’s accent is rough, the words too coarse to be a Templar. “Did you hear that?” she asks over her shoulder.

“Sounds like that Lyrium smuggling ring is back up again,” Varric says, his eyes narrowing. “I hadn’t heard they were back in business.”

“They’ll be in the way of the search, won’t they?” Merrill asks. 

“Let’s take care of them,” Hawke says, her voice crisp, the order given. She stands straight, her shoulders back, needing no Lyrium etched onto her skin like Fenris to feel the sudden spark of energy and magic in the air. She is ready for a fight, is _aching_ for one, to be able to let loose and take out her frustrations on whichever smuggler took the wrong shift tonight.

Fenris is already running ahead, his markings lit, looking more wraith than elf. Varric grabs Bianca off his back and is ready to fire. Reaching behind her, Hawke feels the solid wood of her staff and she brings it forth, feeling the magic running through her veins, ready to call on the Fade itself to help reach her goal: to find Anders.

Seven smugglers are waiting, three running towards them, the rest with bows. Hawke feels the Fade swell inside her and calls on the Abyss, forcing the ones heading towards them to slow. Fenris takes full advantage and lunges with his great sword, and quickly the smugglers are down to six.

Fenris engages the two swordsmen while Varric, Merrill and Hawke focus on the archers. “Suck on a fireball,” Hawke whispers to herself, unleashing fire magic from her fingertips. She hits only two when she meant to hit three, but the two she did hit start to panic, allowing Varric to fire 

A swordsman changes his target from Fenris to Merrill, but the elven mage quickly twists her body, releasing a Mind Blast. For only a moment, the swordsman pauses, but it’s enough that Varric hits him with a bolt right between the eyes. Minutes later, the fight is over and Hawke puts her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. She carefully evaluates her mana, wanting to make sure she had enough reserves in case Anders needed healing. Though if it comes to that, they are doomed. None of her companions enjoy her clumsy attempts at healing magic.

“Let’s go further in,” she says after they’ve all recovered from the fight. She doesn’t bother to pick pockets or check weapons tonight.

They are quiet again as they walk, listening for any signs of more smugglers. After another five minutes of walking, Fenris says, “Wait.”

He crouches down and Hawke’s heart starts beating outside her chest.

“The mage is near.”

Fenris stands and turns toward her. He holds out his hands to her, as if in offering and she sees the azure colored feathers in his hands. “Anders,” she whispers. Somewhere in these Maker-ridden tunnels he is here and she must find him before she gives into despair.

The group starts to walk again, ten paces, then twenty, when two voices can be heard. These voices are more refined, and when Hawke hears the name Meredith spoken, she knows the templars are near.

Varric takes the lead then, turning to stealth. As the rest wait, Hawke watches him turn the corner to get a view of what is ahead. A moment later, he appears, finger covering his lips, telling them to be quiet. Another hand signal has them follow him down another inlet of the tunnel.

When he motions everyone to stop, Hawke feels Varric’s hand on her forearm. “Blondie’s still breathing-”

Hawke drops onto her haunches, feeling relief, blessed relief. _Anders is breathing_.

“But two templars are right on top of him. This is a trap,” Varric says, his voice grim. “I thought you and the Knight-Commander made nice.”

“Attack and the templars will most likely kill him,” Fenris says.

“They won’t if we kill them before they know we’re here,” Merrill says. “If we get behind them, Fenris can be very quiet, you know.”

Fenris looks down at his hands. “I can only kill one at a time,” he admits.

Varric chuckles at that. “Then Bianca here will do the rest.”

Hawke nods absently. It’s a good plan and should work. Best of all, it will keep her out of the fray, because all she wants to do it climb up the stairs leading to the Gallows and charge, to end this mockery of a truce between the templars and mages. Hawke has killed mages in Meredith’s name and still it is not enough. It will never be enough.

They make their way to the end of the inlet and pause. The templar’s backs are to them now, unsuspecting and unprepared for this assault. “One of the left is mine. Ready, Broody?” Varric asks quietly.

Fenris only nods as his markings activate again. Hawke’s own magic wants to respond, wants to seep out, but she forces her mind to be still. Within minutes, they will have Anders and make their way out of these blasted tunnels.

Instead of watching Fenris make his way silently to the templars, she watches Varric line up his shot. She wishes her aim with magic was half as good as his. He’s offered to work with her, but there simply never seems to be time. Perhaps she’ll change that.

The suddenness of Bianca going off almost surprises her. Hawke looks at the templars; they are both dead and she runs to Anders.

Seconds later, she is kneeling at his side, trying to see where he is hurt. He’s unconscious and there’s a large gash on his left side, blood soaking his coat so it almost looks black. His right arm looks to be broken, but he has his hands, oh Maker, they haven’t touched his hands. She is ready to cry in relief.

“I smell magebane,” Merrill says softly.

Hawke rips off her gloves and throws them to the ground before placing two fingers on his neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing… nothing… there! His pulse is weak, but blood is still flowing through his veins, his heart is still pumping, giving them a chance. She holds out her hand and one of her companions gives her a health potion. Carefully, as if she is tending the nest of a baby bird, Hawke lifts Anders’ neck as she brings the vial to his lips. After pouring some of the liquid into his mouth, she massages his throat, hoping this will be enough to revive him.

Eyelids flutter but do not open. “Wake up,” Hawke says, her voice strong, commanding him to listen. He ignores her. Hawke places her fingertips on the wound at his side and they come away coated in his blood. He’s still bleeding and who knows how much blood he has already lost?

She gives him more potion, knowing he is beyond her ability to heal. The knowledge settles into her body, deep and certain, rooting itself like a deep freeze of winter.

And then the whispers start.

She closes her eyes, but the sudden darkness only makes it worse. The demons are calling, they are slithering towards her, telling her that he can be saved, it’s so simple, all she must do is open herself to them and they will fix everything…

“No!” Hawke cries, her voice raw with grief, as she casts a simple healing spell.

This time Anders’ eyes open slightly. “Hawke…” His voice is tired, so tired and she wonders how much longer they have.

“I’m here,” she says, laying his head back down on the ground as she brushes away hair, caked with blood, from his eyes. “I’m here.”

She grabs his hand, refusing to let go. There must be something she can do, without resorting to blood magic or demons. As much as she loves him, more than anything life has offered, Hawke will not lose herself to save him. She will not be the women he loves if she does.

“Injury kit, please,” she says, holding out her hand. It appears, and she makes Anders drink. If they can root out the magebane in his system, so he can heal himself, or if they can just bind his wound enough so they can move him, perhaps then... Perhaps.

He coughs up the potion as she tries to get him to swallow. “Too late,” he whispers. Each would slow and slurred and barely recognizable. “Almost gone.”

Hawke drops her chin to her chest but refuses to shut her eyes, not wanting to miss a second of his last moments in this world. “I love you,” she says, not caring that the others can hear. They know. How many times have they told her she is foolish for loving him? For letting an Abomination into her heart? Into her soul? Her life would be so much easier if he wasn’t a part of it, yet it wouldn’t be much of a life. Not without him.

“Justice,” he says, coughing up blood as he does. “You must take him, love.” Each word sounds scraped out of his throat. But then Anders meets her eyes for the first time. “Finish what we started.”

“I will,” she says without hesitation. But then she pauses. Is she willing to become an abomination for him? She believes in their cause, of course, but to do this… This is to turn her back on everything she has known. Her companions will never understand. Will they treat her like they treat him? Will they leave her side? Can she bear it if they do, if Anders is gone?

Anders' eyes close and each breath becomes slow and labored. It will not be long now. She strokes his hair and in one moment makes a decision. It is not only Anders she loves, but also Justice. She could not condemn Justice to a life alone outside the Fade. Or worse, have him inhibit Anders’ lifeless body like he did with Kristoff. Not when she is able to provide an alternative.

A cool, metal gauntlet rests on her shoulder. “Don’t do this, Hawke,” Fenris says, his voice soft but urgent. She hears more emotion in these words than she has ever heard before. “You said you would trust me to do the right thing.”

The right thing, of course, is to strike her down if she becomes an Abomination, not to risk what she might become, especially when anger and grief will overwhelm her. She looks up at Fenris and offers a sad smile. “Do what you must,” she says, surprised at the calmness she hears. “I do what I must.” He nods and takes a step back, releasing her shoulder but not his sword.

Her focus goes back to Anders, who is so still. She’s never seen him this still, not even in the early morning when she’s awake and watches him sleep. Even in slumber, his eyes are constantly searching behind closed lids or his feet move or fists clench. But now, he is calm and Hawke hopes desperately that he will be able to rest.

He exhales.

He does not inhale again.

She hears the death rattle she is far too familiar with and lets out a wordless cry. “Maker, no,” she says, tears falling down her cheeks. Hawke hears demons flittering about, all offering their help and she is tempted, she is oh so tempted, if she could just bring him back…

But then everything changes.

He appears so quickly Hawke doesn’t have time to be afraid.

She is fire and fury as the blood in her veins begin to boil. She is air and energy as electricity dances over her skin. She is earth and turbulence as her muscles grow heavy. She is water and ire as the mist in her mind finally clears.        

She is Justice.

And she will have Vengeance.


	4. Part IV

**Part IV**

_I hear you moved that apostate boy into your house. You really are your mother_ _’s daughter. - Gamlen_

~~~~~

Everything hurts.

Anders is slammed back into consciousness, as sudden as a thunderclap and just as furious. Magic, denied to him since being stabbed with a poisoned blade, courses through the blood in his veins. He reaches deep down into the Fade, feels the power surging within, even in his weakened state.

And suddenly Justice is back, having never completely left, wanting control, demanding that Anders cede to him. Anders resists - he _must_ resist - for Justice cannot heal this body, he can only destroy. Precious moments are lost during the struggle, seconds that Anders could use to heal himself, to repair damaged blood vessels and broken bones and torn muscles. As Justice finally gives in, Anders feels a weak prickling sensation sliding across his skin. He recognizes Hawke’s pitiful attempts at healing magic at once.

_Hawke._

“What have you done?” The words come out of Hawke’s mouth like a snarl. He has never heard her sound so angry, not even after her mother’s death, when she hopelessly raged against him, demanding to know why creatures like them should be free. Anders struggles to open his eyes, seeing a light blue tinge, letting him know that Justice is still aware and around.

Hawke is not looking at him but at Merrill, who is clutching a knife. The smell of rust and salt and a hint of sweetness that he only associates with blood magic tickles his nose. He takes the time while they’re distracted to cast a healing spell on himself.

His magic grabs her attention at once. “Anders,” she breathes, the reverence in her voice astounding him. Over their three years together, she’s said his name a thousand, ten thousand times. He’s heard her cry out his name in passion and as she wakes up, tenderly pressing her smooth cheek against his stubbled one. He’s heard frustration in her voice as she asks him to stop ranting in front of their friends, and in anger when they are alone and can safely talk of mages and the wrongs committed against them.

But never, _never_ , has he heard her say his name like this, as if she is lifting him up in prayer. He is not worthy of Hawke’s devotion, of Hawke herself really, not yet. Soon, when the time is right, he will set Thedas on fire and though he expects the resulting blast to reduce him to ashes, he will finally prove himself worthy of her.

He will set Hawke free and never again will she be threatened with a cage.

Anders reaches out his hand, suddenly desperate to touch her, to feel her fingers wrap around his. Her fingers are calloused and rough, like his, and while she might use creams and lotions to mimic the hands of a noble, it’s these hands, the ones that she places in his, that grip a staff or spins at a wheel that he loves so much.

He tries to speak, but his throat is parched and just thinking about water makes him realize just how desperate he is for something to drink. Thankfully, Fenris of all people hands a skin to Hawke, who carefully brings it to his lips. She pours just a mouthful which he promptly spits out, before helping him drink a little more. “Not too much,” she warns and Anders nods, understanding the danger of gorging after more than a day of no water. While the water is not cold, it is not warm and his throat feels better at once.

“Potion?” she asks and he nods. Varric hands her a potion and he drinks it down with Hawke’s help. Already he’s feeling better, though by no means is he out of danger. His healing instincts take over. They need to get out of this tunnel and he needs to have his side bandaged, his broken arm set. Within a week, he’ll be fine, but not if they don’t get out of here before more templars come.

Hawke takes the empty phial and places it in a pouch at her belt. “Can you stand?” she asks gently. He nods once. “Walk?” Anders evaluates his injuries. Walking without assistance will be impossible. Fenris will have to help him, to Anders’ shame, but at least it isn’t that far of a walk to his clinic. He shakes his head and Hawke squeezes his hand. “Fenris and I will help you, then.”

“I don’t mean to rush,” Varric says, Bianca in his hands, his careful eyes looking for any sign of trouble, “but we’re standing right next to two dead templars and Hawke, I’m pretty sure you and Blondie are already on Meredith’s shit list. We don’t need to add to it.”

“Good point,” Hawke says. “The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

Fenris takes over then, throwing one of Anders’ arms over his shoulders and lifting him to his feet like he was a rag doll. Hawke starts to support his other side but wound on his torso is too delicate and opens up when she does. “Dammit,” Hawke mutters as takes away her hand, coated in blood.

“I have this, Hawke,” Fenris grunts as Anders and he start to walk. Anders casts one more healing spell to stabilize his side for the journey and hopes they make it out of the tunnels soon.

They walk in silence, Anders ignoring the hostility radiating from Fenris and only focusing on the step ahead of him. Even Varric has no quips or words of wisdom and is walking ahead, scouting, while Hawke paces at Anders’ side.  

“Merrill.”

A pause. “Yes, Hawke?”

“You used blood magic to save him,” Hawke says and Anders can hear the war brewing in her words.

Merrill walks a few paces behind them and he cannot see her face, but he can hear the righteousness in her voice. “And I’d do it again. We were there in time, not like with Pol.”

Anders turns his head to look at Hawke. Her shoulders are slightly hunched and there is an emptiness in her eyes that he has never seen before. She glances up at the same time and give him a rueful smile, making him wonder just how tempted she was to do the same. No doubt demons plagued her before he woke, all offering her the chance to save his life in exchange for a foothold, just a tiny foothold in this realm. But Hawke refused, leaving Anders to wonder if he would do the same if their roles had been reversed. He lets out a small sigh when Justice rumbles, saying they would have; even for their Champion there are lines they may not cross.

“Thank you.”

He can hear the smile in Merrill’s voice. “You’re very welcome.”

~~~~~

The next two days pass in a blur of potions and healing magic. Finally he is strong enough to make the trip from his clinic to Hawke’s mansion, technically his mansion as well, though he’s never been able to call it that. Ever since he was sent to the Circle, home is not a place to him. At first, home was where ever his mother’s pillow resided, whether in the Fereldren Circle or a barn during an escape attempt or Vigil’s Keep in Amaranthine. Now _Hawke_ is home. With her, Anders is granted a measure of peace he is sure he will never find in a place.

He sits up in bed, sipping at a cup of tepid water while Hawke lies on top of the covers on her stomach, bare feet swinging in the air as she writes in her journal.

Anders takes one more sip of water before placing the porcelain cup on the nightstand before turning his focus on Hawke. She wears a simple linen night shift, bunched up at the waist, revealing her smalls. Reaching out, he rests his hand on her bottom and notices the small upturn at the corner of her mouth.

But then Hawke turns to her side and takes his hand. “I don’t think so.” She fluffs up her pillow before resting her head, and Anders sees her trying to keep the smile from her face. “After the duel with the Arishok you wouldn’t touch me for a week.” She kisses the inside of his wrist and his heart clenches. Times like this he loves her so much he thinks he will burst. “No matter how nicely I asked.”

His movements are slow and ungraceful, thanks to his still healing injuries, but he mirrors her position, laying on his side, pillow under his head. “You were convalescing.”

They stare at each other, their fingers gliding together, not quite entwining, but always touching. “Anders,” she says and he is reminded of how she said his name in the tunnel though he hears grief in her voice now. Her tongue darts out of her mouth and wets her lips as she blinks, once then twice. “You died.”

He doesn’t remember death. He remembers pain and fear and saying over and over in his mind ‘not yet, Maker, please, not yet.’ “Only for the briefest moment,” Anders says, trying to put a bit of levity in his voice but fails miserably.

Perhaps now is the time to discuss what exactly happened to Justice during that moment. Anders knows Justice was in her head, only for a few seconds, but the time might have been enough to lay out their cards, like the final reveal of a hand of Wicked Grace, and tell her everything they’ve worked for, but purposely kept her from discovering.

Her fingers leave his and curl up into a fist, which she raises to her mouth. She closes her eyes. “He was there, for just a second,” she says, her voice soft, a breath on a pane of glass. “I don’t think he left you completely, because I felt only a fraction of his power and his anger and then…” She uncurls her fist and places her hand back in his and just like that, the glass cracks. “And then he was gone. And I felt so empty.”

One of his fears is just that. If he were ever to find a way to separate himself from Justice, how alone would he feel without the constant presence in his head? It wouldn’t be fair to Justice, not unless they could get him back into the Fade. “Thank you for being willing,” Anders says softly. “It meant a lot to us.”

“Justice wasn’t in my head long enough to tell me your plans,” Hawke says, meeting his eye, her gaze seemingly burning into his soul, revealing everything he is to her. “And I know you aren’t telling me everything on purpose.” Anders lowers his head, but Hawke lifts it back up with two fingers under his chin. Her face is as set and determined as he’s ever seen. “Just know whatever it is, I am with you.”

His wound be damned. Anders leans forward and wraps his arm around Hawke’s waist, bringing her as close to him as possible. It’s never enough, she can never be close enough. His mouth claims hers and he lets himself get lost in the kiss. Even though her words are the exact opposite of what he wants; everything he’s done is to keep her out of the blast radius, he can’t help but feel a hint of triumphant. Hawke has chosen him and their cause no matter the cost.

Breathing heavily, Anders pulls away and looks at her. Hawke’s hair is down, tousled around her shoulders and her lips are red from his kiss. She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen and he will keep her from being singed if he can. If she must burn, let her be a phoenix, rising from the ashes, deadly and magnificent. Let her _live_. Kissing her brow, Anders whispers, “Thank you.”

They are still for a moment, the only sound the cackling of the small blaze in the fireplace and their breathing. This time of night, the household is still busy. Orana is prepping food for tomorrow’s meals and Sandal is working his enchantments while Bohdan manages the accounts. Even Baker, Hawke’s mabari, works, patrolling the gardens for any possible intruders. But to Anders, he and Hawke might as well be the last two people in all of Thedas.

“As soon as you’re well enough, I’ll talk to the Grand Cleric,” she says. Her voice is strong and sure and Anders feels Justice roar deep in his chest in exaltation. The final step and when the city stands on precipice, with Hawke in the middle as always, the time will come to shatter the illusion of peace.

 He nods, seeing the world in a blue tint, but Anders pushes Justice back. This moment is not for him, it is for Anders and Hawke. She smiles and runs her hand through his hair, not bound for once, but loose, and mouths, “I love you.”

“And I love you,” Anders says, resting his forehead on hers. Such simple words, yet they are everything. Growing up they told him over and over in the Circle that he had no right to love anyone. That no one would ever love him. To be with Hawke, to know without doubt that the words spoken to him in the Circle were an absolute lie… He’s suddenly weary, Hawke’s proclamation sapping what little energy he has.

“Now we just have to figure out what to do with your coat,” Hawke says, her voice bright. Anders is glad for the change of subject. “The pauldrons are a lost cause, I think. It will be near impossible to get that much blood out of the feathers.”

Anders’ brow furrows. He hadn’t given his armor any thought. He loves that coat, having broken it in perfectly. It fits him like a second skin and the last thing he wants to do is break in another when war is so close. But the gash in his side soaked his coat in blood. “I liked that coat,” he says, hearing himself sound like a petulant child.

Hawke’s lips purse. “Perhaps we could dye it,” she says, propping herself on an elbow. “In fact, I’m sure we could. We’ll dye it black.”

“A little morbid, don’t you think?” Anders says.

“It’s the only color that will cover up the blood,” Hawke says. She laughs easily and it lifts his heart to hear it. “Without dyeing the coat, no one will want to go to your clinic. Would you want a healer who wears a coat soaked in blood?”

She stretches her back and Anders takes the opportunity to press his lips against her throat. “Fine, we’ll dye it black.” Another kiss. “What about my pauldrons? Dye those, too?”

“Best to start from scratch there, I think,” Hawke says, sliding her hand up the curve of his shoulder before settling on his neck. “We have all those raven feathers we’ve collected. I’m sure there’s enough to make you a new set of pauldrons.”

Anders thinks it over. The more he does, the more he likes the idea, of wearing armor she helps him create, of looking down and seeing raven feathers, knowing she is the one that sewed them there. And then when the moment comes, the magic they will weave into his armor would give him strength to start the war.

“It will be a change,” Anders says. He’s never liked to wear black, the color always felt too morbid and depressing for a healer. But perhaps it is time to try something different. Perhaps the new color and pauldrons of raven feathers will help ease him into his role as self-proclaimed harbinger.

Hawke skims her thumb over his cheek and he leans into her touch, as he always does, as he always will. “Everything will change soon,” she says, certainty laced in every word, as if she could no more stop the upcoming storm than she could keep a bud from sprouting or a caterpillar bursting from its cocoon.

Pressing his lips chastely against her own, Anders turns to lay on his back, ready for sleep. Hawke curls up next to him and lets out a contented sigh, warming Anders’ heart. They have so few moments of peace left, he wants - no, needs - to enjoy every one.

For Anders has already spread tinder throughout Kirkwall. All he needs to wait for is the spark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I've very much enjoyed writing this and would love to know what you think. Cheers! :)


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